


My Keeper's Brother

by sinistrocular



Series: My Brother's Keeper [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Five years ago in Savoy, Gen, spoilers for 1x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistrocular/pseuds/sinistrocular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The heavy, muggy air of the rain contrasted sharply against the chill that had taken Aramis's bones since word first reached them of the Duke's visit. Everything burned too bright these past few days, too warm for such a grim reminder of one of the darkest, coldest days of his life. While time had brought him back from a brink he never knew existed before, it could not heal all wounds.</p>
<p>(Spoilers for 1x04, which is the primary inspiration for this and its companion piece.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Keeper's Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaciart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaciart/gifts).



> Spoilers for 1x04 in here. This is the companion piece to [My Brother's Keeper](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1181869), which was inspired by [Julie's artwork](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/76393900885). Mood music recommended is the one on her page or ["Going Home" by Asgeir](http://youtu.be/fIeVKsqD2aA).

The heavy, muggy air of the rain contrasted sharply against the chill that had taken Aramis's bones since word first reached them of the Duke's visit. Everything burned too bright these past few days, too warm for such a grim reminder of one of the darkest, coldest days of his life. While time had brought him back from a brink he never knew existed before, it could not heal all wounds. And yet he would not surrender the scar in his soul for any number of comforts or treasures. 

Twenty crosses stood at the head of twenty dead musketeers and he counted them again and again, accompanied by a whispered litany of names into the deluge. With the end of macabre verse, he returned to the fresh grave, unmarked but belonging to a noble soldier worth more than a simple cross. Aramis thrust his blade down into the dirt and the quillons looked more like the outstretched arms of Christ than any crossbar ever could. It fit Marsac better than the simple markers surrounding him and despite the pain that threatened to swallow Aramis whole again, a quiet relief lingered under his skin, soothing the rough edges of the wound deep in his heart. It was done now for his old friend. He would suffer no longer under the heavy burden he hefted onto his shoulders the day he left Aramis in the forest. He would no longer wander the world as a shadow, flog upon his back for every breath he took, and Aramis knew for his own scars that stood out against the fabric of his soul despite the turn of the eternal wheel.

Yet, time had made it easier to smile and breathe, to find comfort in his bed while his brothers laid in the dirt forever more; the thorns of guilt that had stabbed him any time he ate so much as a bite had long since washed away in the ever-flowing river. The Duke's visit had brought ever nail and spike back with him and even the politest smile could not disguise that he had been hurting these past few days since news first came to them of the visit and the memories it dredged up with it. To his surprise, Serge had noticed his melancholy and if the cook had noticed, Aramis knew he could ignore the matter no longer: he had to eat, drink, and be merry again, even if it stung to do so. He could not let the pain swallow him whole again, if not for his own sake than those of his friends who could only stand by his side in prayer that he would emerge again from the darkness.

The darkness that Porthos dispelled with purpose and an angry fire that kept his heart beating in the dead of night when wanted nothing more than for it to cease and give him the peace he sought. But now, no longer did anger burn away in his chest, not for Marsac, not for Treville, not even for the Duke. Still, he did not need it; Aramis was a soldier and a soldier he would be until his dying breath left his lips. Justice had not been served— not a justice Aramis had been promised by his nearest and dearest friend, no— but the matter was now finally finished. France's spy once again rested safe and Savoy's suspicion quenched until another day. Now he could properly take his first step as a free man since that night on the border.

And those first steps led him away from the graveyard to the door of the first one he'd told of the raid, the one who had reminded Athos at the parade, the one who had watched him with so much worry over the past few days. Aramis could no longer shrug off the concern or act oblivious to the potential consequences of his actions. His feet moved and he followed, through the dirt and grime, away from the forest of crosses. 

It seemed Porthos expected him, his mud-covered boots, and lackluster smile.

"Come on, before you catch cold." His friend ushered him in with the same intense stare that Aramis had avoided for days now.

After Aramis pushed his food around his plate until it cooled, Porthos seemed fed up with it all. He set his fork down beside his own plate and sighed heavily.

"'m not doing this again," he heard across the table and Aramis glanced up, meeting Porthos's gaze for what felt like the first time in a long while.

"Doing what?" Aramis chirped in response, sliding his plate away from him to Porthos's obvious dismay.

"Watching your impression of a dead man again," Porthos grunted as he stubbornly pushed the plate of food back toward Aramis. "Eat."

"Why Porthos, I—"

"Aramis." Porthos canted his head toward him, the beginnings of anger kindling in his dark eyes.

Aramis knew the statement behind them, the silent _I thought we were past the part where we lie to each other._ Certainly, Porthos had given him space and been nothing but frank and honest about the entire matter while Aramis danced manic circles around him to avoid addressing it, but every man's patience came to its end after so many fruitless efforts to rouse anything but platitudes from a friend's lips. Under Porthos's watchful eye, Aramis scooped his dinner into his mouth, even if he did so at a snail's pace. Still, Porthos shifted restlessly in his seat and Aramis knew there would be no silence between them that night.

" 's all done with now, is it?" Porthos spoke again when Aramis had cleared his plate to the former's satisfaction.

With a nod, Aramis folded his napkin and set it beside his utensils, his eyes falling to somewhere in the middle distance. He knew it was the coward's way to not talk directly to his friend, but the grief was too fresh, too heavy, and no pressure came from Porthos to do otherwise.

"Marsac rests with our brothers now." Aramis hated how his voice hitched too high in the space between them and Porthos sat straighter in his chair, but else did not answer with anything but a solemn nod.

His mind's eye returned to that night, to that horrible night when the world turned upside-down in a clash of steel and flesh. He remembered waking in the forest, his vision blurring not for tears but the pain in his head that had burned with a ferocity greater than any fire. Marsac had stood mere paces away, staring out into the falling snow, blood splattered over the uniform he wrenched from his shoulders. Like a mirage, his friend had disappeared into the forest around them and it had taken Aramis a long minute to realize he should go after him, but by then Marsac was long gone. That did not stop the slow steps that had crunched in the snow. No, he would not lay down and let his friend throw away his life, but before he could get far, a grief had swelled through him and pulled him under in a crest that drowned him. His world had became nothing but the cold, white embrace of winter.

Seemingly, he recalled, in the very next moment, Athos and Porthos had knelt down in front of him, hands burning against his skin.

"Aramis." Porthos broke him from his reverie and from the alarm Aramis could see in his face, he knew it was not the first time his friend called to him.

With a sigh, Aramis shook his head for a reason even he could not decipher. "I'll be alright. I just need some time."

They all healed in different ways: Athos required tremendous amounts of alcohol and strict solitude, Porthos needed to act and move, and Aramis did not know D'artagnan well enough, but Aramis himself desired the silence and time to think through matters both thick and thin. Still, though Aramis was the forest, slow and steady underneath the smirks and laughs, he needed Porthos, the gale that blew through his limbs and pulled the dead bark free so he could mend.

"I know." His friend still watched him from across the table, though his voice did not warm. Underneath those simple two words, there laid an uncertainty that seemed foreign from Porthos's lips. There was no guarantee that Aramis would not slip down into a stupor again and disappear where they could not reach him with the longest rope they could find. Aramis knew that Porthos could not bear to stand by and wait for him to emerge from the pit, pieces of his soul hanging loose about his shoulders like a cape.

Porthos could not simply watch as Aramis wandered back into that marble garden of death to stand vigil over their brothers, as if he wished to join them. When Aramis looked up to meet his friend’s gaze again, he could see it written so plainly across his face: Porthos would not bar him from the forest, no, but he also would not leave him there to wither and die. He would rustle the limbs and fight for him with sword and musket, he would do anything but stand idle.

And Aramis could hardly fault him for it. If Porthos suddenly decided the dead were his only company, Aramis would shake him or shout at him as many times as necessary to change his mind, that there were those still living and breathing company worth his time. Still, he knew his patience would fizzle out, like Porthos’s would, if not faster. After all, Aramis was quite skilled at repairing skin and sewing wounds shut, but the matters of the soul were different. 

He would not condemn Porthos to weather the storm of his silence, wondering when his friend would emerge.

No, Aramis could not answer the siren call of that garden again; he had laid them to rest and if they were to have any peace, he must stop bothering them. Every of his brothers deserved a tranquil respose and Marsac with them. Aramis could not join them while he still served the musketeers, while Athos and D'artagnan and Porthos still lived and breathed and fought for the king. Again, he needed to prove to Porthos that his trust rested well in Aramis's self-efficacy and autonomy, to recover on his own without constant vigilance or mother henning. Certainly, for that was Aramis's job and he would not let the others take it from him without a fight.

For the first time in days, Aramis smiled, and the cold of the winter five years ago slipped from his bones, replaced by the glow of summer. He _smiled_ and saw it reflected and echoed back to him in Porthos's face, in the way the creases softened and eased.

“I’ll be alright,” he repeated, much more firmly this time and Porthos answered with his own grin.

"Promise me," Porthos's voice grew sunny again in relief, the gale eased into a temperate breeze.

With an enthusiastic joy, Aramis found himself glad to not need to lie, that he did not need to fill the air with false promises and empty words. "I swear it, Porthos. I will be alright."

**Author's Note:**

> I am sinistrocular @ tumblr too if you're curious but I don't share much of what I write because I think I write best when I'm particularly inspired (which is every couple months or so).
> 
> This work is now complete.
> 
> I'm definitely considering writing some more for this fandom! Be forewarned though I love introspection and character study pieces (as I'm sure you can see here).


End file.
